


Crawling

by damselindisguise



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Law, Courtroom Drama, Drinking, Dubious Morality, F/M, Lawyers, Legal Drama, M/M, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Morality, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, enemies falling in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damselindisguise/pseuds/damselindisguise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new vigilante referred to by many street names on the rise makes Matt question all of his morals and his decisions in his time as the Black Mask and the rising Daredevil- all while he experiences an interesting new kind of dance with a befuddling client, Frank Castle, and a villain like none other comes to town with a bounty from an old face with a new proxy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castle

**Author's Note:**

> ((A/N: I do not own Daredevil, or any of the other associated properties in this story, and make no money- this is purely a work of fiction for enjoyment and nothing else.))

The days at Nelson and Murdock are slow- even after their case involving Fisk blew sky high, the firm is almost entirely ignored except for when they barge in on a client; not that that's gone as well as it did with Karen a single other time in the world, so Foggy and Matt have papers stacked high and little else to show for their work as the blind lawyer reads a braille text concerning famous cases- something that his best friend is almost one hundred percent certain Matt has read something like ten times by now. The monotony is only broken by the ticking of Foggy's cracked desk clock a few meters away, and Karen's chewing of an apple as she goes over their- mentionably abysmal and suffering- finances on a spread sheet. 

None of the three expect the door to open without preamble- besides, of course, Matt, who raises his head a moment earlier, having recognized the pattern of the footsteps in the hall, which he can hear, but says nothing about. After all, Karen doesn't know about all of that yet. A man with a nearly shaved head and a thick stubble shadowing his face comes in, dark eyes darting and careful as he does, clad in a thick canvas coat. Immediately, the lawyers each rise to their feet, and Matt straightens his tie, shuffling his long cane in his grip, and smiling in the general direction of their client. Karen looks startled, glancing between the newcomer and an evidently flustered Foggy- he was in the middle of a quiet tirade about something relating to a tabletop role playing game, and is not prepared to help a client.

"Matt Murdock," the other lawyer offers, extending his hand graciously into the open air, and the man steps forward, evidently relieved someone finally did something after something like a good fifteen seconds of awkward silence. He shakes- Matt is impressed by the firm quality of the shake, calloused and unrelenting. He's found many people take his blindness as fragility- which it is not in the slightest. He's glad to know this man respects him immediately.

"Frank Castle," he says, voice deep and a little accented- where from specifically Matt doesn't place yet, but he's sure he'll figure it out. Foggy grins half-heartedly and shakes his hand as well, deciding to let his partner take the lead here other than his very own introduction.

"Foggy Nelson," the longer haired one says, and the client looks at him with a certain perturbed expression, so he adds on, "Its actually Franklin, Foggy's just my nickname."

"Makes sense," Castle answers, and seats himself carefully, dwarfing the chair he sinks into for the most part and reminding Foggy how badly they really need to get a new set of chairs for their clients other than old uncomfortable wood things with flat cushions and the metal folding type- Karen has the best chair, and he envies her for it.

"What can we help you with?" Matt asks, smiling generously, and Castle shifts, eyes fluttering. Foggy recognizes this as well- a common thing in clients he isn't going to like, though it's also people who want to make eye contact with his best friend but can't because of obvious reasons. He supposes Matt is used to this- if Matt even notices. 

"My family," Castle starts, "They were killed by some members of a local gang. Wife and two kids." Pain shows in his voice, but there's a solid sound to it behind that- and Foggy and Matt both pick up on it, but both also remember quickly the recent shoot out at Central Park- the dead of night, cold, with few outside, and a mob met a gang in the corner- an unlucky four passed. A veteran lost his family. 

Foggy abruptly understands why intimidation is rolling off of Castle in waves, and decides he's definitely going to let Matt do all the talking, because he's learned he has a way of pissing the types of clients like this off- all of this while Matt realizes he's proving Foggy right again, once more finding himself taking a liking- be it romantic or otherwise- to the most damaged person in the room without even knowing what they look like. 

"I remember," Matt says, "My condolences." He tilts his head a little bit, steepling his fingers carefully beneath his chin as he listens, keeping a poker face even though he's almost sure he's going to take Castle's case immediately after whatever the man has to say. 

"Thank you," Castle grunts gruffly, and this time his wandering eyes seem to be embarrassment- disinterested in sorrow from others, keen on something else. Foggy can see this shaping up badly already- especially with the air coming off of Matt seeming very much like the usual 'Matt is going to help a poor lost soul' air that his best friend gets. 

"My in-laws are trying to get all of her belongings," Castle mutters, rubbing his shirt between his fingers, "I want to make sure I get a few of her things, and the kids' things, but they're fighting me on it. I never knew they hated me." A chuckle, certainly a lie of a laugh considering the sneer accompanying it, emanates from his thick chest under his grey shirt. 

"We're actually criminal defense lawyers," Foggy starts, laughing nervously as he leans forward, but Matt just raises his fingers, giving the other man a patented Matt Murdock 'Shut Up Foggy, I Don't Care' look before smiling indulgently at Castle.

"We'd be glad to take a, ah, look," Matt says, and the ice in the room is cracked- Karen snickers at her desk, and this time Castle's grin is a little more authentic, his lips curling into a faint ghost of the aforementioned, teeth showing just a bit, bright white between chapped lips, and Foggy's gut sinks.

Oh, this is a bad idea. He feels it already- and intends to drink that feeling away at the soonest possible opportunity. 

~

"It's a bad idea, Matt," Foggy insists, repeating his earlier line of thought out loud, "He's the classic Matt Murdock crush- damaged, devastatingly beautiful- if in this case, handsome- and also very, very bad for business. This time, in more ways than one!" He waves his hands over his head and sighs. His best friend ignores him and waves for a drink for them both in the general direction of their bartender- Luke Cage, whom Foggy knows just a little bit from coming here as often as he does after work- Karen is not along tonight, however, leaving him and Matt to argue- or rather, him to lecture and Matt to ignore other than to shoot back biting retorts periodically and refute everything his much more sensible, in Foggy's humble opinion, best friend has to say.

"He needs help," Matt says, "And I haven't even seen his face."

"That's the problem, Matt," Foggy groans, "You never see their faces. They look so pretty and sad. Its terrible- you get this feeling and its awful." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," the blind lawyer answers, and then asks, "What time is it?"

"Ten," Foggy answers, "And, no, you are not going to run off to do the you-know-what, because we are talking about this, Murdock!"

"I don't have a crush, Foggy," Matt sighs, "I just want to help him. Is that too hard to understand? I would be heartbroken if I hadn't been able to keep my Dad's stuff after he died. The least I can do for Castle is make sure he gets a dress and a baseball glove or two to remember his family by."

"You're going to go after the mob, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Yes, you are. Matt- just be careful, okay? This- that business is going to get you hurt. Not to mention its unethical- but I digress, you know how I feel. Here, let me walk you home- then I'll leave and you can get up to whatever in your red suit of pain."

The two rise, a pair, and Matt leaves money to cover their tab before allowing Foggy to grip his arm and lead him along- he's glad he's still got his best friend, even through all of this.

Matt Murdock feels he's got a good enough life- and he wants to help Frank Castle find his own, too. 

So he's taking the case- and a bit more, too, outside the law.

~

The vigilante is becoming a more regular thing in the city- people have become accustomed to knowing Daredevil, as they've christened him, is roaming the rooftops. He'll hear them from afar, talking with more comfort, more ease- reasoning with each other that its safe to walk to the car down the block, that no one is going to attack them as long as he's watching. It makes Matt feel good- glad. He's helping people, making life easier for the tormented residents of Hell's Kitchen. 

Things are looking up for his city.

At the same time, though, three are dead in a shoot out, petty, between the mob and the local gangs, and he intends to get to the bottom of it- the reasoning, and everything else. So here he is, standing sentinel and keeping a close listen on the affairs at a known hangout that is the closest thing to a speakeasy as they come in post-prohibition repeal times. He's been keeping tabs on multiple men walking in and out, almost laughable in how obviously they are emulating the mobsters of old- those ones are a comedy show. He doubts they mean any business, and most come out smelling a little ruddy and purpled- embarrassed by the real mob, most likely. The lawyer-turned-vigilante is quite aware that the suits and ties have slid out of fashion- given way to leather jackets and jeans and shorter hair and five o'clock shadow coating chiseled jaws, with stranger tastes than typical booze, instead smelling of cologne and hide.

Stereotypes can be everything, and make a case- or break one. 

Speaking of which, he hears a loud engine and pays closer attention- the man who climbs from the car has a distant scent of oil, and Matt recognizes he must be a mechanic of some sorts- but he also can smell gunpowder and metal, and infers this is a man coming to report to someone inside. Perfect- he also seems to be alone, judging by his silence and lack of other footsteps in his wake, or other car doors, which is half of the vigilante's job done for him already. He scales the side of the building to the ground and then heads into the alleyway- if anyone sees him, they say nothing, as most would. He's doing a job they are glad he does.

A short conversation is audible- general things, mostly simple business and conversation of keeping an affair from the public eye. Even better- now Matt has leverage to toss in.

Daredevil lurks among the shadows until the man emerges, and then he moves- fast and strong, he takes out the man's legs and drags him into the alleyway, tossing him against the brick wall none too gently.

"What happened in Central Park?" he asks, voice low as he hovers there, a murky red presence layered in black patches among the dark. 

"You're that Daredevil guy," the criminal realizes aloud, "You're the one who took down Fisk. We would have thanked you, but you took a few of ours in before, too."

"I know," the vigilante answers, and then says, "Start talking. Central Park."

"I don't know, man," his informant groans, waving his hands, "That's not my division. They have some feud going down that way, I guess. I'm not in on it."

"Would you in on it if I told you that everyone will know about the affair if you aren't?"

"He'd have me sleep with the fishes if anyone found out!" protests the criminal, shocked as he goes to stand- Matt kicks him back down.

"Then you'd better talk," Daredevil spits, all the while knowing he would never just let anyone die- even a law breaker like his usual quarry at night.

"All I know is that somebody's little princess went off the rails and left to run off with one of their guys over there! A couple of people got screwed over with some money on a deal, and that was that! They've got a feud, get it? It's not my turf, man!"

"Well... this is my turf," the vigilante says, stepping forward to loom, a crimson-maroon and black shape hanging above prey, "And I want you off it. Turn yourself in- or else."

"Got it, man- Christ," the criminal mutters, and stumbles to his car, casting dark looks back at a pensive, unaware Matt- so this is all over a little drug money and a girl? He frowns. 

Crime. It never ceases to amaze how conspiracy can turn out to be nothing- just a cruel, cruel accident trying to be justified. Daredevil ascends the nearest fire escape and heads home- there's not much more he can do tonight, and he needs to get studying for Castle's case before he tries any more strings.

Lawyer first, vigilante second- or so Matt tries to keep it.


	2. Punish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: In case it was unclear, this universe is not the same as the one shown in 'I'll Bring You Hell' for my more prolific readers- in any case, I hope you are all ready for even more screwed up dynamics between heroes and villains or arguable anti-heroes!))

Frank Castle is not a happy man- he thinks he may have been at some point in his life. He had a chance at it- he was a happy kid for most of his life, despite the ugly, ugly world trying to decay him and break him down. Sure, he was scrappy, but he knew how to smile with a split lip and blood on his teeth. He was known for being the fastest to laugh- but also the fastest to deck someone's ass- in elementary all the way through high. Then he joined up with the military and spent a few years working Marine special ops. They sent him to college soon after his first deployment.

Yeah, that didn't last. While Frank wasn't on missions, he worked as a cop instead of finishing his schooling. An existence that grew monotonous, but he was happy enough- if not the smiling kid with cut knuckles that everyone remembered anymore, but just a stoic cop who smiled at other's jokes more than most. He met Maria on leave and fell in love immediately- not matter what, he was always better with her. Happier. He smiled more. She loved him unconditionally- even gave their son his name. Frank Castle Jr. God, he was such a proud father- his progeny, his offspring, his kids, little Lisa and his namesake. He loved them- loved watching their tiny selves, so happy, but lacking any of his violence. They were the purest things he'd ever known.

Then they were torn from him.

He stares at the ceiling of his apartment, very still in his bed. Its not big- he got rid of the full size bed after Maria and the kids died. He didn't need room for a woman and possibly two children anymore. Its just him- and he lives on bare essentials now. He stands, the grey of his house feeling less suffocating than welcoming- there's something kind in how small everything is with the doors shut and the color erased. He sits at the counter in his sweatpants and watches eggs sizzle in Maria's favorite pan.

His pan, now. 

Frank eats his eggs with a glass of water from the tap and then gets dressed, tugging into his coat and lacing his boots with his usual cargo pants and tee. The same color palette as usual- he feels comfortable in the monochrome gear- because it basically is- and his blue canvas coat. The former military man walks out of his house and to his truck- another thing he wishes he could drop, now. He'd be just as fine in a basic old Jeep, but his truck still has a high payment on it, and he can't just drop the lease. 

So here he is, driving down the street in a big black shiny truck. Frank makes a list in his head- rubs over his scalp, feeling the tiny hairs scrape his fingers, and remembers he needs groceries. He starts with that- groceries, and then puts them in the cooler in the bed of his truck, and drives to Nelson and Murdock. 

Frank chose them because they're cheap but reputable- despite low rates and small size (not to mention the ratty style of the whole place, not that it bothers him) they proved themselves recently. He's done his research, as he does in most things.

The man reaches the door and enters after a single rap with his knuckles to announce his arrival- scanning the room, he sees Murdock's partner has taken a sick day, but the pretty blond- Karen, he recalls- is here, making a phone call to someone. 

"Mr. Castle," Matt greets, surprising Frank, who didn't expect to be recognized by the blind man. 

"Mr. Murdock," he answers gruffly, and seats himself heavily, crossing his arms across his chest and then realizing that might look like he's trying to be macho or something- only to remember no one but Karen can even see him, so it really doesn't matter, because she's busy anyways. For a man who isn't worried about luxury, Frank finds himself worrying over his appearance often- its a leftover thing from Maria, telling him to iron out the wrinkle in his brow, creasing at the top of his nose's bridge. He can't shake old habits of trying to please a woman who's gone now- a woman who he loved.

"Late night?" he asks, noticing dark circles under Murdock's eyes, and raises his eyebrows, leaning forward a little and pursing his lips to look at what Matt is doing with his hands- he's befuddled to see the man is typing, but then notices braille on the keys and understands. He isn't used to this. 

"I reviewed your case," Murdock nods, and spins a page around, sliding it to Frank's side- he lifts it and reads. Its a basic contract- flat hourly rates plus any added expenses, which are not to be expected. He signs without a second thought. This trio is honest- otherwise, they'd have sold out to Wilson Fisk a long time before bringing his corrupt ass down.

"Here you go," Frank says, folding his hands into his lap again as he puts the contract and pen back in front of Murdock, who gathers them carefully and sets them to the side of his cluttered desk atop a briefcase.

"To business," the lawyer begins, "Did you and Maria have a will drafted?"

"Hell no," Frank shakes his head, "Well, I did, but she thought I was too young for it. Strong as an ox, she said. Didn't believe I'd die soon enough to need one, and I didn't think she would, for sure." What's that old saying- 'tables turn, we live and learn?'

"That complicates things," Murdock explains, "Without a clear direction for the items you want, they're all able to fought over- and if the judge gets ahold of them they'll just turn it into an auction, most likely. So we could figure out a defense for a few items, but it'll have to be good. What things are important to you?" His fingers hesitate, long and pale, across the keys, and Frank is surprised to see scabs across each knuckle of them, and has to think on his response- why is Murdock using his hands so much? 

No. He probably just fell, Frank reasons.

"Her wedding dress," the military man answers, thinking hard on what is most important in the grand scheme, "Her ring. The kids' outfits from baptism. I'm Catholic, by the way."

"Religious defense holds some water," the lawyer hums, adding it, "I'm Catholic, too."

"Great," Frank says, not really caring a lot, but feeling a bit of camaraderie at the same time, "I want Junior's glove. Lisa's hair pins." He starts to feel a little bit constricted and tucks his fists into his coat pockets- the lawyer turns his head in a manner that disturbs the man- its like Murdock is looking at him, despite being blind, almost like he knows how Frank is feeling.

"Maria's Bible," he finishes, "That's what's most important. I have the photos. Those they didn't fight me for."

"Those are reasonable demands," Murdock eases, and types a little more on his laptop. He sets his hands down and one of them rubs the end of his long cane while he considers. 

"You think you can get all of it?"

"Not every hair clip, but, trust me- the Courts are normally understanding of widowers and widows in cases like this. You are almost certain to get the majority of your requests met." Matt smiles, thin and not truly amused, just an attempt at comforting, and Frank feels like its getting stuffy- he needs some air. 

"That all?" he asks, rubbing his hands down his legs- he's thinking of a package in the backseat of his truck, packed in the tiny space behind the passenger's spot, filled with things he shouldn't be carrying when he's not on the field or on duty- neither of which has he been since he resigned shortly after Maria and the kids. 

"Yes," Murdock confirms, "I'll draft up the list right now, and get back with you later on. We've got your number on file."

"If I don't answer, just leave a message," Frank notes, "I'll get back with you sometime."

"Will do," Matt chuckles, and the other man leaves, feeling Karen watching as he goes- he gets a distinct sense she and Foggy don't like him as much as Matt does. 

Doesn't matter. He punches the key fob to unlock his truck and climbs in, reaching to the back and pulling the paper bag forward

~

The mobsters at the table are playing cards. How generic of them- how much of a stereotype. Frank is almost sickened by it as he walks in unnoticed- their guards busy chatting up the waitresses, and, besides; his gear is hidden underneath his trusty canvas coat. They won't see him coming. 

"Who the hell are you?" the bouncer asks- an exclusive list forgotten until just now. 

"I'm Frank Castle," he answers, voice solid, and the men all take notice of him then. A couple of them scoot around in their chairs, immediately on edge.

"What do you want?" asks a single man, sitting further towards the corner, setting down a glass of whisky, watered down by a melting piece of ice.

"I want to know who killed my wife, and why," he says, gruff and low, "Tell me."

"I don't have to tell you anything," the mobster snorts, and Frank reaches into his coat and produces a small plastic object with a plunger on the side. 

"This place is going to fall on your head in thirty seconds," he says, "Starting- now." He pushes it, a tiny squeak beginning the countdown as he backs up to the door. 

"Now talk," Frank threatens.

"Kill him," the man waves off, and they all reach for their guns.

That's a damn shame. He reaches into his coat again, and this time its not for an idle threat.

They've had their chance- now Frank is going to take what he wants.

~

Frank wakes up to his TV- he left it on over night. He curses quietly but as he sits up, rubbing his bruised abs, he sees a story on TV. 

'Local hideout burns to the ground- seven local mobsters considered to be caught in blaze. Arson suspected.'

He is stoic as he turns it off. He repeats his routine- eggs, get dressed, go to the car. He doesn't need any more groceries. 

Frank goes to the lawyers' office again. Murdock doesn't have any other cases going- he checked online where the city keeps track. Hell's Kitchen has a lot of lawyers, most of them dirty and very busy- the firm he's at isn't one of them, and for good reason. Fast, clean results.

Just the way he likes.

Once again, Karen is sitting at the desk, but today she's scrawling in tiny boxes. Looks like accounting, to him. She practically seems to run the place while Matt and Foggy do their work on cases. 

More accurately, Matt, because Nelson himself is still nowhere to be seen as Frank hesitates at the threshold, letting the door swing shut behind him. Matt, in his office with the door shut, is holding a cotton ball on his knuckles, and absently running his free fingertips over a braille reader.

Then, as Frank turns, kicking a chair on accident, to ask Karen if Matt's busy, the lawyer looks up sharply, evidently hearing the metal thump, and once again there is a disturbing sense of awareness coming off of the blind man- like he knows exactly where Frank is and how out of place he's feeling right then despite his blindness, through a closed door and glass panes.

"You can come in," Matt tells him, and Karen gestures for Frank to go, her pen in her teeth as she erases something with her pencil. Girl works too hard, Frank thinks, as he enters Matt's office.

"How's it coming?" he asks, deciding to look at a spot on the wall- a water drop dried to the paint, it seems.

"The draft is finished," Matt reports, "I was just waiting for you to get here while Foggy got coffees, and then we'll deliver it to the courthouse to get everything going officially. Shouldn't take much longer than a week, Mr. Castle."

"Frank," the man corrects, "No one calls me Mr. Castle besides the recruits. Half the reason I quit."

"Frank," Matt says agreeably, though in a politely professional way, clearly making sure not to jump over any boundaries, and passes him the draft, "Take a look for me and then sign at the bottom."

Frank fakes looking over the draft and then scrawls his signature, a bold and jagged font that he thinks is sort of ugly, onto the paper. Matt takes it, running a thumb across the places for everyone's names, and his mouth twitches like he's considering something in depth before he sets it down and nods at Frank.

"That's all she wrote!" Foggy says, "Sorry, did I interrupt?" He glances at Frank and holds out the tray of coffee cups, raising his eyebrows. The former military man gladly takes one, sipping it black. He's got no need for creamer or sugar- he hardly ever drinks it, but he's indulging because he's so damn tired he thinks he's going to have to cut his night plans short even with the information he got last night.

"Thanks," he says, husky, "I'm gonna get out of here, now. Call me when the case is filed, yeah, Murdock?"

"Sure," the lawyer answers, eyes downcast as he carefully feels the rim of his coffee cup, and then ever so slowly pours in sugar, "Frank."

~

He visits the graves instead of going out that night. The sun is hanging low above Hell's Kitchen when he gets there, a bouquet of roses in his tight, thick handed grasp, and he sets them down carefully above the three people who meant the most to him- who mean the most to him, despite everything, still. 

Frank is silent, and listens to the wind as it chills his ears, and he images the feeling is them turning red as they bite and sting. He rubs the top of the stone clean of dust and the bottom of dirt, and then digs a toy car he forgot he had out of his pocket and rolls it on the grass before tucking it into the wrapping of the bouquet. 

Then he leaves, wordless, and gets in his truck. He drives home.

Routine dictates he eats a balanced meal- greens and meat with the fat severed, and a potato. He drinks milk and then water. He feels oddly hollow, and checks his phone as if someone will have called.

No one has. He expects this despite having wanted to see someone calling- namely, Maria or her in laws, but they don't like him anymore. They blame him. He knows they do.

Frank peels his clothes off and puts them in the hamper, and then gets in the shower. He listens to music over a radio in the living room, letting the steam permeate the air through the house. He likes the atmosphere after a shower- even now, it calms him. 

His phone rings when he's halfway done, and, so, careful not to fall, with soap suds on his tan skin, he ties a towel around his waist and answers his cell without checking who it is. Regiment broken, but he's okay with that, because his mood has improved since earlier that day- the coffee and being called 'Frank' again instead of just 'Mr. Castle' by every cop he used to know and official he never cared to helped.

"Hello?" 

"Frank?" Murdock asks, "This a bad time?"

"No," Frank lies, dripping on the floor and getting the tile all wet- but he wants to hear he's going to get what he wants of his family's belongings, or at least is on the track. Its mostly superficial, because the lawyers wouldn't have called if they weren't filed, but he wants to hear it all the same.

"Okay," the other man answers, "We got your paperwork filed, and we should be getting back the official notices tomorrow- I'll give you a call once we do, and you can come by to pick them up from us. We'll make copies."

"On you?" Frank asks, a private joke as to their finances over at Nelson and Murdock, and the lawyer actually laughs, surprising him. Here he thought his cynically spoken words would have irritated Murdock- but its just the opposite, apparently.

"On us," Matt confirms, "Extra fees don't apply there. We like you."

"Speak for yourself," Frank suggests.

"We do," Matt insists, "Trust me, people have paid for copies before. Foggy gave you coffee, too- we charge for coffee. Not you. Really, Frank. We like you."

"Thanks, Matt," Frank says, wanting to hang up now, because this is making him feel strangled again- by feelings, by talking, the whole lot of it. 

"Don't mention it," the lawyer answers, totally unaware of his emotionally stunted client's distress, "Stay safe." The click lets Frank release his breath in a huff, and he gets back in his shower, finishing rinsing off before he notices the towel is still around his waist, and is now sopping wet.

This is why he has a routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: This probably seems like its moving fast, but there's no flirty intentions in any of these scenes- Matt is just being a nice Matt and Frank is being emotionally stunted and failing to be able to talk comfortably and openly about anything that isn't literally without substance or just logic. Normal days for these two, right? On another note, I may write a second story for these two when Season 2 actually releases, because this one is (obviously) not following canon in the slightest. Hope you're enjoying! :) ))


	3. Ringer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Is this ship called Fratt? Because I feel like calling this ship Fratt just has to be a thing. Mank just isn't as good as Fratt. Anyways, enjoy!))

Matt wakes up with a comforted sigh- he hasn't gone out in two nights other than training at the gym, and he can feel the difference- all the bruises faded, his sheets perfectly cool and kind to his skin, not irritating any raw spots. He knows he'll have to go out tonight, but he will deal with that later. For now, he rolls onto his back and listens into his living room where the fridge is roaring at him, considering breakfast. 

Of course, then he lays around too long and has to eat cereal, but its a fine tradeoff. He ties his tie on as he's heading out the door and then clicks along, lulling himself into a state of absent minded happiness as he goes to the office. Foggy gets there at the same time, and opens the door for Matt. Today is a good day. 

The lawyer goes to his desk and checks his laptop, his earbud relaying him that the court has sent the papers- he prints them out and makes a second copy, asking Karen to hold onto it while he calls Frank- reception in the office gets spotty during thunderstorms, and one is brewing, with a chance of snow, so here he is, standing on the steps with his phone in hand, listening to the tone as it tries to reach Frank. 

"You've reached Frank Castle," his answering machine starts, and Matt almost tunes out, only to hear, "And Junior!" in a kids voice, followed by, "And Lisa!" as a woman laughs in the background, and Frank finishes, "Leave a message for me," in an amused voice that makes the blind man's chest clench. Foggy is right- damaged is what gets Matt, be it romantic or platonic, and he can literally listen to the change from Frank then to Frank now.

"Hey, Frank," he says after the beep, "Your papers came in, so when its convenient swing by the office and we'll get that squared away before we head to the courthouse this weekend. It shouldn't take more than one quick meeting to figure everything out, so don't worry too much. Its about... eleven thirty." Matt checks his watch.

"Hope you're well," he finishes, and hangs up. 

The lawyer heads back inside, no thoughts remaining on the subject of the case at hand- instead, he is thinking on his mission of the night- tonight, he thinks, he will investigate the arson at the hangout for the mobsters. That seems like a good starting point- considering it sounds like a gang war is about to break out that will hurt a lot more people than just Frank's poor wife and kids. 

~

Frank comes away just after the ringer on his phone stops- he'd get up and answer, but he can hear the message buzz in, and decides to just go about his morning normally instead of breaking everything to get to the call. Dollars to donuts its just Matt letting him know the papers are in, in any case, so Frank takes an extra minute in bed, covers bunched at the tapering of his waist, before getting up and tugging on his long underwear under his cargo pants, expecting snow by the looks of the sky outside. He isn't excited; Frank doesn't particularly love the snow to begin with. 

Maria was the only person he knew who could make him like the snow, and, by extent, their children. He'd had fun, as much as a man like him can have fun, when he'd gone with them to parks after a dusting had fallen on the New York grass and streets- even if all the rest had turned to slush, the stuff in the parks was normally very pure for the first few minutes.

Those are memories he will always cherish. He will never make more like them.

Frank makes eggs and eats them, drinking his water, and donning his coat. He goes to his truck and drives to the store to buy salt. He leaves with salt, anti-freeze, and a new ice scraper, because he's tired of the old one making smears on his windshield and he's got money to waste as it is without a wife or kids to buy stuff for anymore; why spend it on anything impractical for himself, either? He's not one for luxury, as clear. 

He goes and gets gas and polishes his windshield, glad to be rid of the old smudges at last at any rate, and then drives to the house again. He's feeling like wasting time today- the bag in the back beckons for the moment night falls, though, and that's probably a big reason why. He gets his phone and dials his voicemail- the sound of Matt talking confirms what he already thinks.

"Hope you're well." Frank is a little taken aback- is he friends with Matt? He supposes, despite their professional relationship, that of the three members of Nelson and Murdock he would soonest say he's friends with Matt. Then again, people can wish each other well without being friends. He's just out of touch with people and religion- and considering Matt is a practicing Catholic, self proclaimed so, it makes sense he'd be doing such.

Frank also reminds himself he doesn't think quite like everyone else lately, and moves on with his life, kicking the truck into gear again and driving towards the firm. He arrives at about two forty five and heads inside, keys jingling in his hands- he is just putting them in his pockets, his mind absent as it hearkens forward to the night, when he enters. 

Foggy glances up and then in at Matt, who is listening to something on his laptop- Karen glances up and nods to herself, shuffling papers. 

"Here you go, Mr. Castle," she says, offering him the papers on the date for court. 

"Frank," he corrects absently, and checks the date. Sunday. Today and tomorrow between the date. Murdock wasn't kidding when he said the case would be fast- he just hopes he was right saying it would be in Frank's favor, too. He's been given no reason not to trust everything the blind lawyer says yet, though, so he takes it for now.

"Frank," she nods, stilling as if wondering why he's idling there- he checks the date again and then looks at Foggy.

"What do I wear?" he asks, "Suit?"

"Probably," Foggy nods, "Not dress blues. That will get them a little uptight, trying to be all proper and businesslike." He rocks back and forth in a robotic manner with his face contorted in a demonstration that makes Frank's lips quirk despite himself. 

"Got it," he says, and gives Matt a quick look- the other lawyer is still totally unaware, at least outwardly, of the client, and so he leaves, anticipating that if he sets out now he may have time to eat before heading out- then he can shower when he gets home. What a luxury, especially for being that he's going out tonight.

Not for the first time, as he climbs in his truck, he reflects how screwed up his interpretation of going out has become.

~

Matt notices when Frank is just about ready to leave- but he supposes getting up and going to say hello would be both unprofessional and very not-blind to do, and give away his super senses at least in the barest dimension of the idea. Get the ball rolling, so they say. 

He stays seated instead, and Foggy comes in a moment later to sit across from him, water in hand, and purses his lips, giving Matt a trademark 'Foggy Wants To Talk' face. 

"Yes, Foggy?" Matt asks, removing an earbud, because his best friend is aware that Matt already knew Foggy was headed this way before he got past the threshold. 

"Did you see Frank came through?" Foggy inquires, "He wanted to know what to wear to court."

"Court," Matt snorts, "More like a glorified 'yes, you can have what's yours, sir.' Sometimes even as a lawyer the system baffles me."

"You can say that again," his best friend bobs his head in agreement, "I told him a suit."

"You told him right. We'll all match that way." Matt starts thinking about the runaway princess of the mob and considers if that is an avenue to follow tonight or not, in light of small talk that isn't so much fun as it once was in college.

"We're both going?" Foggy asks, eyebrows rising on his forehead in an off blond swell. 

"Appearances, Nelson," Murdock reminds, and smiles, "Appearances are everything."

"You conniving bastard," Foggy says, smirking, and Matt rises to go. 

"Its just good business, Foggy," Karen tells him, entering just as they finish the conversation, and he grins at her- their eyes meet in a sappy enough way that Matt leaves faster- if they want to leave on a date, he won't be the one to stop them, pretenses be damned.

~

Daredevil usually inspires people to look the other way- which is exactly what they do when he traipses onto the crime scene and into the remains of the building, sniffing- arson, for certain, with a scent of plastic and metal. An explosive, then, if not a large one. He's surprised that the CSI haven't figured that out yet. 

Kneeling, the vigilante sniffs with more care- detecting whiffs of some of the men he had monitored the other night, and one that smells much as their ringleader did- but not exactly the same. No... he's a fake.

Meaning the real one is out there, still, and someone is hot on his trail, for some reason.

If Matt had to bet, he'd say revenge is the only thing that could inspire such an act- so its the other gang, then.

As he suspected, there's a gang war brewing. Its just more complex than initial- they've got a dead ringer in the morgue, after all.

Matt heads towards home- he wants to figure out more about the other side of this war, the gang, before he goes any further in his nighttime investigations.

Maybe if he had looked back he'd have seen a man in a blue canvas coat looking at his own handiwork and cursing himself for not noticing sooner- the plates on the car out front? All wrong.

Frank Castle got the wrong guy.

Neither notes each other, and Frank melts into the darkness, heading home- he will replenish his ammo and save energy while he researches where the leaders of the gang and the mob have gone to hide- research being a soft term- and this time, his revenge will not be duped.

He swears on his family's graves. 

~

A phone on a desk rings, and a man in glasses with a dark fading hairline reaches out to lift it- he is thin and yet intimidating, with guards at the doors, hands crossed. 

"Yes?" he asks, knowing there isn't a ton of time to talk to someone who's been sent to prison as he tugs the chain on his glasses, clicking his pen so he can write what his employer has to say to him.

"I want you to hire Lester again," a deep voice says, careful and precise-articulate and yet holding something back. Wilson Fisk is an interesting man.

"We have the funds?" the Architect insures, keeping his tone banal and respectful. 

"More than enough, for the job he does," the former crime ring leader confirms, "Transfer him the money, and he'll be on a plane to Hell's Kitchen within twenty four hours. I want this war dealt with fast- no gang is going to undermine my allies, whether I'm in a jumpsuit or not. They need to know I still rule the city."

"Yes, sir," the Architect responds, calm, and hangs up the phone, swooping the last note out as the click resounds- he flicks the pen back into the cup and then rises, striding down the hall and buttoning his suit coat.

All is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Experimenting with hopping character perspectives mid-chapter instead of focusing on Frank one chapter and Matt another. I will probably stick with the original formula for the most part, though. For anyone who recognizes the Architect- he's essentially an OC here, considering he's only seen in a small number of comics, but if you know him, then shoutout to you!))


	4. Clean

Frank doesn't expect to need to go and see Nelson and Murdock the day before his case- he instead goes to stock up on extra groceries and go through the car wash to get old soot residue off of the wheels from his recent nighttime activities. He is driving home, listening to the news on the radio, coat tossed into the passenger's seat, when his phone starts buzzing in the drink holder, loud and obnoxious. 

"The hell?" Frank mutters, lifting it up and checking the caller ID- it's Matt Murdock again, and he flicks the radio off, thumbing to answer and pressing his phone between his ear and shoulder as he grabs for a notepad.

"'Lo?" he grunts.

"Frank," Matt greets, "It's Matt Murdock." He sounds like he has something he needs again, and Frank holds back a sigh. This case is supposed to be the lawyers' job, ins't it? He forgot how much work it is, even for a client, to go through the legal process. 

"Got that," Frank says, checking his rearview mirror and merging into the right lane of traffic so he can turn, and wishing the little snow from the day before hadn't melted into the road, because his truck, just clean, is getting all dirty again already. 

"Do you mind coming in today? We have a few things we'd like to discuss about the hearing tomorrow, in case they ask you for testimony, or anything else under the circumstances." Matt keeps his voice polite, but Frank knows he's noted the irritation in the former military man's voice. 

"Yeah," Frank says, "Let me get my groceries home and then I'll head that way." He's lying. All he actually needs to do is find somewhere to do a U-turn, but he's in a neighborhood he doesn't know as well as his own, so that make take a minute.

"Great," Matt says, "We'll be waiting." 

"See you," Frank dismisses, and hangs up, lodging his cell phone between his legs as he glances in the mirrors before hooking a U-turn on a regular road, NYPD be damned. They can ticket him if they want to; he's got lawyers.

He doesn't get pulled over, and arrives at Nelson and Murdock without incident, parking crookedly in the spots outside, and he finishes his bottle of water and tosses it in the trash as he enters the firm.

"Frank," Matt greets, standing in his office, and Foggy shuffles a few papers.

"Long time no see," Frank says, crooking up one side of his lips at the lawyer, and Foggy grins a little as if trying to decide if its appropriate to laugh at the joke.

"Sorry," the lawyer states, "I mean, I was here last time." Foggy shrugs as he does. 

"Doesn't count," Frank shrugs, pursing his lips to hide a more genuine turn of his lips, and seats himself, tucking his hands in the pockets of his trusty coat, back on his torso now that he's not riding around in his truck. He hopes his joke broke the ice from his irritation on the phone. He's not one for being clever- he's to the point; but he understands the atmosphere here appreciates that sort of thing, so he's glad to indulge his lawyers.

Matt smiles, sitting as well, and folds his hands carefully on the desk between them. "Okay," he says, "To start out, I wanted to address attire- suits are appropriate. You don't need to go the whole nine and wear dress blues or a tuxedo." 

"Got that covered," Frank nods, and then remembers Matt can't see him anyhow and stops, licking his lips and giving Foggy a look as the lawyer smirks- evidently, this happens often enough Matt's best friend finds it almost a joke. 

"Great," Matt says, and spins a pen in his hands to pass it to Foggy, who checks off a row of rough scrawl on a legal pad- is that Foggy's writing? Frank knows for a fact its not Karen's, because he's seen hers, all swooping and nice-looking. Like Maria's, but no one can compare to Maria. This writing is most easily defined as scratchy and sloppy, like someone wasn't looking when they wrote it. 

"Next thing up is if they ask to hear from you- your family is going to make a case concerning that she was their daughter and they raised her, and by extent put that out to your kids as their grand-kids; even though they don't have the childhood note there. You've got easy pull with your kids, considering, but your wife's stuff will be more of a fight. If they ask you to talk, keep hostility out of it. Humble emotion always is best in a courtroom, be it a shamed criminal or a saddened husband. Just put that off and you're golden. You've already got their sympathy, remember." Matt smiles thinly, his hands moving as he explains, gesturing at the air a little bit. He talks with his hands some, then- he's a bit erratic, today. 

Empty cups of coffee explain that, though, and Frank nods, vocalizing, "Sure, I can do that. Not sure how emotional I'm really gonna sound, though." He leaves unstated that he hates being emotional- it makes him feel suffocated and claustrophobic. Matt can fill in the dots on his own; the man is sure that the lawyer is intuitive enough to pick up on that in him even in the few days they've known each other.

"Great," Foggy echoes Matt, "Then there's only one other thing- payment." Matt looks like he'd roll his eyes if he wasn't being professional and he sets a hand on the table.

"Payment is fine as you can manage it," Matt dissuades Frank's nonexistent concerns, "Whenever you can give us part of the bill, it's fine. All that my partner asks if that we get a flat fifty to start out."

"I can do that," Frank nods, uncertain why the blind man is so hesitant to talk about the money- he digs his wallet out and unfolds a few bills onto the table- fifty and change in all, but he doesn't really care. They can take it off his bill later.

"Thank you," Foggy says, gathering the money and going to give it to Karen as Matt tilts his head, humming and typing something on his laptop, fingers testing the braille for a moment before he does.

"That all?" Frank asks, "I'll have the rest in a couple of days."

"Yes," Matt nods, smiling at him again, in some manner that makes Frank feel choked again, like Matt is trying to help him again, in a way involving feelings and talking and friends, "Don't worry if you can't. We're patient here at Nelson and Murdock."

"Well, I'll see you later," Frank says, instead of making an automatic response, and rises, patting his hands against his hard thighs before moving to the door- he casts a look back at Foggy and Karen, who are rewriting the finances for the month, and then opens the door, shuts it behind him, and heads to his truck.

~

Frank wakes up the day of court with a twisting feeling in his stomach- nerves. A real novelty, because Frank Castle doesn't do 'nervous.' That's just not in his nature. However, his routine is already broken considering that the snow fell again over night, so he drags himself up and puts on the long underwear under his clothes again, a winter cap on his head to keep his scalp warm, and then goes and cleans the truck off of frost and ice and cold white fluff.

He heads back inside and checks the time- he's got to be at the courthouse at a quarter after noon, so he's still got a couple of hours. With no groceries to buy and no errands to run, he decides to take his time- he makes his eggs and eats them with his water, as usual, and then brushes his teeth and takes a shower, scrubbing his face to try and ease the tension that makes the muscles on either side of his nose feel taut- there's nothing he's going to do for his back, he knows that, or the ones in his arms. They are going to be wires under the skin until he knows who wins.

Frank reminds himself to trust Matt and rubs his own scalp clean, short bristles of hair scraping across his calloused palms before he climbs out and dries off, checking his time again. Still an hour to go- and he's wasted all the time he could manage. Succumbing to being early, the former military man goes and gets his suit from his closet, where it hangs at the back. He hates wearing suits, but they are necessary sometimes, so here he is.

Everything is simple enough- he tucks his shirt in and ties the tie to his throat and stares at himself in the mirror over Maria's little vanity table. He looks fine, but he can see how stony his face is- he does his best to smooth it out and makes himself look sad. He reminds himself today is a day to show how he feels instead of hiding it behind a layer of brick and mortar, a tough exterior with no cracks. Today, he needs to show that he hurts because his wife and kids are gone, instead of wearing his skin like a shield.

Frank strides out to his car with thirty minutes left and climbs into his truck, shutting the door and turning on the radio- no news today, just faint music. Genre doesn't matter, he just needs the background noise to help him calm down a little bit- he can't be a live wire in court. He presses his foot on the gas, trying to exorcise his anxiety, pushing with all his being into the bottom of his foot, and watches his speed meter go fifteen miles per hour- twenty- over the speed limit.

Then blue and red lights appear behind him. A long, gravelly sigh escapes his throat and he stops, rolling his window down and tilting his side mirror a little bit as he waits- the officer doesn't have to say anything. Frank just glares forward and passes off his information, and ignores whatever the bastard has to say to him. 

After its over, he jerks his car into gear, rolls his window up, and drives away, leaving the cop standing there with his hands on his hips. Damn, Frank thinks, checking the time, because now he's late. After all of that time he spent trying to figure out what to do until court, and now he won't be on time.

He speeds again, but this time, thankfully, he doesn't get pulled over. He leaves his coat in the side of his truck and gets out, striding inside double time and reaching Matt and Foggy just in time as the doors open.

"Frank," Matt says, offering his hand to the open air, and Frank grasps it, shaking absently- only noticing a moment later that Matt's hands are covered in callouses that rub against Frank's own, even more calloused, palms as they both pull away and head inside the room. What in God's name does the blind man do besides his work at Nelson and Murdock all day to have split knuckles and rough skin?

"Okay," the judge says, looking a little exasperated as she glances at the item up next, "We've got Frank Castle versus Wife's Family." She glances up at them, ensuring everyone is present, and then back to the page.

"We are going to be deciding who gets the property listed here," she starts, lowering dark eyes beneath dark curls along the bulleted points in the category, and Frank's mind wanders as he looks at Maria's family- a couple of them are tossing dagger stares at him, and he's thinking how much her sister looks like her. Jesus. One of the kids- her nephew- stares at Frank, wide eyed. The kids always were a little afraid of him, besides his own. Intimidated by his size and stature- not to mention he's been told before that he has a really mean face when he's just sitting idle. 

Frank smiles tensely at the boy- but the kid just looks away sharply, and ignores him from then on. Matt listens intently to the judge alongside Frank, so he's certain its okay to ignore the proceedings; considering they're not much his speed, anyhow. 

"Mr. Castle?" the judge queries, and he jerks, looking over at her with raised eyebrows over his brown eyes, injecting his feelings into them quickly. Her face softens, dark skin wrinkling with sympathy in the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, and she nods at him.

"Would you mind making a case for us?" she asks, "Tell us why it is you think that these items are your right."

"They were my wife and kids'," he starts, "They were my blood- my kids' stuff, I got all that for them with Maria. Its my kids, y'know? Maria... all I'm asking for is stuff that's ours anyways. They can have stuff that was all Maria. I just want the wedding dress she wore with me, and the ring I got her. Both of those things were us things. Me and her and no one else- besides the kids, I guess. I mean, what's there to say? Its not like it'll bring them back, but its things that are important to us as a family- they're things that don't matter to Maria's side that much, and I don't have anyone else, so." He sort of spreads his hands and then drops them again.

"There it is," Matt says, quietly, and Maria's family is now all glaring at his lawyer and him- probably because they know he's right, and so do the law folks.

"I'm sorry to tell the family that Mr. Castle is right," the judge says, "It might not be a law, but its common courtesy to realize that what's part of a spousal marriage and their offspring is clearly the right of the widower or widow. Mr. Castle?"

He looks at her, holding his breath- both because he really doesn't like the feelings being dumped out this way and that, and because she is going to deliver the verdict. She basically already has, so he can't see what reason there is to be nervous anymore, but he is, like he's stupid or something.

"You will be granted all of your requests," she nods, "Please sign here, and we will have them ready for you to pick up at the front desk."

"Thank you, judge," he grunts, quiet and gravelly, and reaches out, scrawling his name into the space designated, and then slides it over to Matt and Foggy- the blind man scrapes his fingers over a braille copy as Foggy signs, and then he helps Matt stamp his name into the gap meant for him. 

"That's all," she says, "Adjourned."

Frank goes to the desk and gets his family's things- they don't talk, just hand them over and give him pitying stares. He turns away, not enjoying people feeling bad for him all over again when he just got a victory- outside, Maria's family is traipsing to their cars, sending angry stares back at the building. This is the last time he'll see them, Frank knows, and he watches them go as his lawyers approach, hands in pockets, talking to each other.

"I'm happy for you," Matt says, reaching out with a hand, and Frank shakes it again- the blind man uses it as a guide to clap the other on the shoulder and smiles a little bit. 

"Me, too," Foggy says, nodding sagely at the client, and Frank shuffles, clearing his throat.

"I actually need more services rendered," he says, and digs in his lapel, producing the speeding ticket. Matt is smiling, wondering what's going on, as he does this.

"What is it?" he asks Foggy, as Frank hands it to the shorter lawyer.

"A speeding ticket," he responds aloud, and Matt nods, giving a crooked grin.

"Back to the office, then?" Frank asks, tucking his arms around himself and glancing at the people behind the desk- most of which were just looking at him, and look away now, seeing the apparently intimidating turn of his body as his chest and limbs flex. 

"See you there," Matt confirms, and reaches towards Foggy. 

"Actually," Foggy says, "I forgot to mention I had something come up later today. Do you mind if I bounce? You can handle the start of a speeding ticket case without me, right?"

"I can't walk all the way back in time," Matt responds cooly.

"I can drive you," Frank produces quickly, keys jingling in his hands. Each of the two lawyers look at him, and Foggy shrugs, making a sort of 'what can you do' face.

"Don't speed with my best friend," he warns Frank, and leaves.

Just like that, Frank and Matt are alone.

"Ready?" he asks, unnecessarily.

"Ready," Matt confirms, and they go climb in the truck, roar it to life, and take off, leaving the courthouse in their wake.

Here we go again, Frank thinks.

Here we go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Hope you're enjoying this story! :) ))


	5. Speed

Frank listens to the silence in the truck- he presumes its a comfortable one, but, then, there's also the fact that Matt Murdock has a certain sense to him that Frank has never been able to shake of a consideration- thoughts, tons of them- lurking beneath the surface of his pale skin, nothing like Frank's own, tanner and with scars lining it underneath his clothes. He doubts the blind man has many scars outside of scars from tripping- he had to have tripped a lot before gaining his seemingly perfect balance. Frank has never even seen him stumble.

Matt folds his hands carefully around his long cane, adjusting his dark glasses with their red tinted lenses on his nose as he rotates over at Frank carefully- the larger man ignores the turning of Matt's head, taking it to mean nothing, considering his passenger is blind. 

"So, a speeding ticket?" the lawyer inquires, and Frank bobs his head before he answers aloud.

"Yeah," he says, "I was stressed, okay?" For some reason, Matt seems like the type to be accusatory over little infractions and big. Maybe its the Catholicism- after all, though Frank is Catholic, he hasn't practiced with dedication in a long time, and is probably pretty rusty; which isn't even to mention that the blind man is a lawyer, who probably are pretty dedicated to the law. 

"Stressed?" Matt queries, cocking an eyebrow at the driver, and Frank sighs, reaching up to rub at his arm, scratching his shoulder, and then they get to a red light and he peels his coat off, feeling too warm and like the cab of his truck is starting to grow smaller around him. Matt can't see him, anyways- there's no reason for him to worry if the lawyer will think something of the pale scars along his muscled limbs and the nearly healed wound on his left one. The lawyer twitches a little bit, and his head tilts, and Frank glances across as the light turns green, then looks forward again and goes.

"Didn't mean to bump you," he apologizes, assuming he accidentally hit Matt tossing his coat into the back seat. The back seat where it will also cover the brown paper bag, just in case Matt, for some inane reason, reaches towards it and could accidentally find Frank's secret. This is why he doesn't drive people places. He'll have to figure something better out from now on for his stuff, if driving the lawyer around is going to be a regular thing. 

Why would it be, though?

"You didn't," Matt murmurs, and Frank is even more befuddled than prior, but says nothing to that, chalking it up again to Matt Murdock being an odd soul, then the lawyer opens his mouth to say something and a woman driving a van, looking over her shoulder at her kids, pulls out at a stop sign. Frank stomps on the brakes and Matt jerks forward, hands darting up as Frank reaches over to put a palm against the blind man's shoulder- then a long fingered hand falls onto his arm, and fingertips find his scars easily.

They are both silent for all of around five seconds as they catch their breath, and Matt's fingers shake against Frank's forearm, tight with the reflex reaction, and the woman in her van is sitting in the intersection, still, mouth open in shock. Rage flickers into the former military man's mind- firstly, because now Matt is going to be wondering what the hell happened to Frank Castle to give him so many scars, and second, because this woman is being reckless.

Frank scrambles out of the truck before he can reconsider and stomps over to stand in front of his truck- "Hey, lady!" he shouts, and hears Matt's long cane clicking as he also slides from the truck, "You've got kids! Be more careful!"

"Screw you, asshole!" she cries back, and jerks her car into motion again, leaving Frank standing there fuming in the intersection.

"Frank?" Matt asks, standing there with his cane vertical, one hand just a little outstretched, like he is considering touching the larger man's shoulder in a calming manner.

"I hate people," Frank declares, rage loosening his lips, "They don't even think what could happen because they're being so goddamn stupid all the time with their kids in the car. They don't even consider."

"Frank," Matt says, again, this time less a question than a comfort, and there's no pity in the way he says it, but sympathy, and his hand falls gently onto the ball of muscle making up Frank's right shoulder, "How about coffee? No extra money for it, remember."

"Coffee sounds good," Frank grunts, starting to cool off, and climbs into his truck again, driving them towards the nearest coffee shop.

A cop glances over at Matt as they arrive, and calls, "Hey, Murdock!"

"Hey, Brett," Matt answers, raising a hand in directionless greeting, and Frank realizes its best if he guides Matt through the parking lot, so he takes a rough but not hard grip on the lawyer's arm and grins tightly at the cop as he leads Murdock inside. 

"What do you want?" Frank asks, depositing Matt at a table so that the line won't cause complications- despite him being sure Matt is used to it, its just easier for him to do it for both of them, and with the rate today is going, he'd better take the simple way out.

"Coffee, creamer and two sugars," Matt rattles off, tucking his hands around his long cane as he sits at the table, and Frank nods unnecessarily before getting in line- dammit, he forgot his coat in the car, and now people are looking at the pale crosshatches from his days on the job, be it here or there... not to mention his less lawful exploits as of late. 

"One dark coffee, and one with creamer," he says when he reaches the counter, and deposits a ten, adding a quickly muttered, "Keep the change." The barista gives him a silent thankful stare and then prepares the drinks- Frank returns to Matt with the drinks and two sugars, tearing them open and pouring them to make the blind man's day easier, as well.

"There you go," he says, "Sugar's in there." Matt nods thankfully and sips his coffee, wrapping his long fingered hands, pale, around the cup- his knuckles still have marks on them, though healing, and Frank decides he is finally going to ask why.

"What happened to your hands?" he asks, and gestures at them for no good reason other than that he's used to talking animatedly. 

"Oh, this?" Matt asks, and his throat leaps, Adam's apple showing, as he swallows and then smiles, rubbing one of the fading scabs, "I go to a gym downtown after hours and work on the punching bags. My Dad- he was a boxer. Battlin' Jack Murdock. I inherited some of his liking for boxing, but- clearly- I can't go into that. Not my speed." Matt gestures at his dark glasses, the red tint lit by the window behind him, and Frank makes a sound of understanding in his throat, beginning to think he should change the subject again, because today he can't seem to escape dead people and emotions joining every word he says and thing he does. 

"Sorry about that," Frank says, looking around the coffee shop for some mundane topic that can't be turned into an examination of feelings by his damn lawyer. Maybe if he talks about the sugar or something Matt won't spin it into an emotionally charged conversation.

"You're bleeding," Matt says, voice quiet, and Frank's hand darts up to his shoulder, where he finds Matt's fingers, warmed by the coffee cup, hovering just over red-dampened grey fabric. 

"I got cut the other day," Frank covers, "Working in the garage. Had to fix the door." Matt nods slowly, and then takes hold of his coffee again, drinking it carefully and listening- there's a certain changed quality to his actions, like he's seen a tell in the man's face. 

Frank frowns, looking away heavily and trying to not feel ashamed over lying to Murdock. Why the hell should he care if he lies to Matthew Murdock? There's no reason in hell his lawyer needs to know about his 'extracurricular' activities. 

"If the mob is trying to keep you quiet," Matt starts, voice soft and understanding, and Frank wants to tell him even worse- Jesus, can the good Catholic just give it up? Frank doesn't like lying even if he has to.

"The mob isn't doing anything," Frank snaps, and Matt becomes very still, his head turned in the former military man's direction, once again giving an impression of sight where there is none. Matt's mannerisms are unnerving sometimes, Frank swears.

"Okay," Matt says, quietly, "I believe you."

Frank can hear the lie in Matt's voice.

~

Back at the firm, Matt sits down and reads over the speeding ticket after putting it through a odd little device Frank doesn't understand in order to have his braille reader tell him what it says.

"Okay," he says, "Its not a nice infraction. Twenty miles over speed limit. Though, once again, extenuating circumstances get you the benefit of the doubt. Just hope we don't get the same judge again or they'll start to lose sympathy for your situation. They'll see it as using it."

Frank is entirely ready to tirade about not using his family's deaths, but Matt raises his hand to stop the man even as he opens his mouth, face tightening with anger.

"I know you aren't actually, but its human perceptions. They're hard to understand and harder to adjust." The lawyer turns to his laptop, thumbing it online, and then starts using the braille keys to type up a document.

"You going to represent me again?" Frank asks, almost sure Matt will say yes.

"Of course," Matt says, and turns to him, "We have a standard contract written up already for use in speeding tickets, so once you sign that I'll get working. No extra expenses for the coffee earlier- I promise." 

Frank doesn't bother smiling tightly. He just stays normal, mood having steadily deteriorated since the relief earlier at the hearing. The printer emits the page, and Matt turns around, setting it between them and offering a pen in Frank's general direction.

The former military man signs his name, wondering what would happen if he wrote George Washington or something while Foggy wasn't here to see. Would Matt somehow figure it out, or would it be a joke forever between them- the time Matt Murdock did a job when he signed George Washington on the dotted line instead of his real name? 

Frank isn't sure Foggy would see the humor, but Matt probably would. He almost asks Matt, but then stays quiet, wanting to tell little and leave soon.

"Great," Matt says, placing the contract over on his own side again, "If you'd like to go home that's fine; I won't need a lot of information from you at all other than a rundown of what went on when he pulled you over." 

"You want that now, or...?" Frank asks, going to stand, hands planted on the arms of his chair, hesitating in case Matt wants to hear his testimonial now.

"No," Matt waves off, "Go get some rest, Frank. I'll call you tomorrow to come in and help us with the overall report."

"Thanks, Matt," Frank mutters, relieved, and gets up to go, rubbing the back of the chair and then his arm- his shoulder hurts where its bleeding. He'll have to patch it back up when he gets home, apparently; probably won't go out tonight, considering he hasn't got any leads and the aforementioned refuses to stay closed.

"Its no problem," the blind man assures him, and the former military man exits, tossing a farewell over his shoulder as he goes, and shuts the door, walking to the elevator and feeling positively lethargic, even as a new energy reaches him.

You know what? Frank was wrong. He's going to go out and do some work for the city tonight, after all.

~

Matt suits up shortly after the sun goes down and heads into the streets- he hasn't been taking care of the petty crime for a few nights now, so he decides to set that right; within a few hours, he's taken down something like seven muggers, three robberies by multiple gun men, and thwarted a runaway vehicle- not to mention two potential kidnappings. Its a busy time, and its only two, meaning he's still got more time to go before he heads home to get a bit of shut eye before heading to work. 

The vigilante is crouched on an apartment building that he knows overlooks a favorite corner for purse snatchers and muggers, but he hears something else a few alleyways back from him. "Give me the kid! Give me the goddamn kid!"

Matt turns and sprints along the rooftop, rounding a skylight and vaulting to hold onto a fire escape. "No," a woman's voice says, afraid, and there's the click of a gun. Matt curses under his breath and leaps down, knowing the bulletproof plates on his stomach can take the blow even if he can't stop it from leaving the barrel.

The feeling of it colliding with him is like a train, and Daredevil topples onto his back, dragging himself up. "Daredevil!" the woman exclaims, and he grunts. 

"Run," the vigilante manages to advise, and the kidnapper kicks him in the side, raising the pistol again as the woman sprints away, child in her arms with tears on his face. 

"Everyone's gonna thank me for this," the man standing over him says, and then there's a gunshot- but its not the criminal's weapon.

Matt smells; the scent of gunpowder and metal and dust and sweat and trash- all of it trying to overpower his senses, barriers falling as his abs throb- but under all of it there is a distinct scent of copper and gunpowder- a just discharged weapon at the mouth of the alleyway- and exhaust and gasoline- an idling car. None of which mentions the bullet wound through the criminal's lung. 

The man falls, pistol clattering past Daredevil, and he can hear boots falling heavily, coming to check on the two of them. A heavy scent, one he would recognize in any other state, he thinks, confusing him, looms over him, and then he hears a kick to the dead man beside him.

"You killed him," Matt wheezes, and the boot bumps his shoulder, then. No response comes, but the male above him turns and leaves, climbing into the truck, heartbeat loud and steady and strong, and then he's gone. 

A killer vigilante in Hell's Kitchen- and he just saved Daredevil's life. 

Matt drags himself home, strips his suit off, and rubs numbing cream onto his abs before falling into the shower- after he's rinsed off, he stumbles to bed, and goes to sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He'll worry about the new game in town another night. For now, he has to recover and prepare to help his client- starting with rest. 

Matt fades, unaware of the rest of the exploits of the vigilante for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: The Punisher and Daredevil met for the first time! Hope you all are enjoying. :) ))


	6. Bullseye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: Yes, that is the reference you think it is, comic readers. :) ))

The city smells like shit tonight.

That's the first thing Matt thinks when he steps outside, but then he listens closer and realizes that's just the dog running by down below having a quick crouch by the dumpster, so he starts moving again, the suit comfortably creaky around him despite the rub of the fabric, making the insides of his elbows feel gritty and raw as he hops to the next rooftop.

A distant scream draws his attention and he goes to take care of it, stopping a mugging- then he hears a car alarm wailing and stops a car jacking. Its not a very busy night- even considering the bullet he took in the abs a few nights ago, the bruises now healed despite the shattered plating there that is only patched up, not yet repaired. Apparently, its not that easy to fix this suit.

Despite this, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen feels nervous- deep beneath his skin, that kind of nervous, the curling, thrumming energy that makes him feel like his pores are about to start emptying a static charge into the air around him and his hair stand on end as he rubs his lips together.

Something is coming, and he knows it, feels it, the tension in the air, smells it, in the acrid ozone filling the skies and the shadows, tastes it in the sweat that marinates the air when he pushes another criminal down, throws his hands this way and that again, hears it, even, in the buzzing of the electrical wires overhead. Its deafening, really, so obvious he can hardly stand it. There's a darkness growing in Hell's Kitchen that Matthew Murdock thought he had expelled, but its only changed shape, and he wants to know what that shape is so he can attune his senses to it. 

Daredevil stops a bank robbery before it begins, and throws a wayward teen vandalizing an old lady's house through a tower of trash cans before calling the police to come and find him lying there among the spray paint and bottles.

The vigilante scales a building after he's taken down something like twenty criminals and perches, billy club in hand, atop a gargoyle, and listens to the city below, listens to the thrum of life that makes it seem like nothing's wrong. Something is, but from here, he can pretend there's not.

A gunshot rings out across the Kitchen.

~

Frank hears it, too. 

Its loud- thunderous, even, and he takes halt, from where he was packing ammo up to continue his night's work from the silver checked box in the bed of his truck- its not his work, for a number of reasons, not the least of which that he's sitting down, mostly relaxed, for looking at guns, in the back.

Even less so, he would never carry something packing enough heft to make a sound like that into Hell's Kitchen- he doesn't need it. He's efficient without it. This is, clearly, someone looking to make a statement, because that power takes the same kind of finesse he has, but also a specific degree of recklessness ingrained in the long black barrels of such weapons.

"Fifty caliber," he rasps, a guess, and slams the lid, starting a fast stride towards the still echoing bang.

Frank loads his weapons away into his belt and rubs his hand down his chest, the logo there scraping against his gloves, and he tightens the straps on them- it won't do to have the garments sliding around mid-fight.

The vigilante raises his eyes and scans the rooftops around him- mostly because it also won't do to have to shoot Daredevil a second time in a week, when he had to go to effort to ensure he wouldn't kill the red suited man the last time. 

But Frank Castle doesn't kill innocents, that's something important to him, so he puts in that kind of effort when he runs into one he needs out of the way badly- and Daredevil has a way of falling at the top of that list. Call it a conflict of interests.

He heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time, sometimes three with his hand propelling him up by the sturdy steel rails, and he glances around on each floor, looking for evidence of the shooter, but not expecting to find any. Certainly, though, when he hits the roof, he expects to see something- a calling card, perhaps.

He does, but there's more than that.

An Ace of Spades is stuck in the door, bent just a bit, and Frank lifts it out, raising his eyebrows, and then slides it into his pocket, tugging his rifle down from his shoulder and holding its barrel out, a clear threat as he emerges ever so slowly, nudging the slab open.

"Hands up," he says. 

The man in black before him wears what appears to be a modified SWAT uniform at first glance- a real insult to the true police, Frank knows, because Frank, having a police radio on him at all times despite not being NYPD, would know about this- looks back and smiles, the cowl pulled over his head adorned with a carefully painted set of two circles and a dot inside, shining merrily back at him.

"You know," he drawls, voice high with glee, "I expected to see the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, but the other vigilante will do. Punisher, is it?"

"I don't really give a damn what they're calling me," Frank says, though he knows what they refer to him as. He helped make the title, even if its cheesy- its hand crafted, after all.

"They call me Bullseye," the shooter says conversationally, turning back to the gun- as Frank guessed, a Barrett .50 cal- and beginning to unhinge it from the roof, taking it apart at stunning speeds, his hands precise and unceasing. 

"Well, your head does make a convenient target," the killer vigilante growls, and goes to raise his gun again when a pair of red boots hits the edge of the roof, the rim crunching loudly to announce his arrival.

"No more killing tonight," Daredevil announces, his armored suit shining metallically in the night light as he makes a fist around his billy clubs. 

"No fun," protests Bullseye, tossing the bag containing the weapon down and stepping towards it as he reaches up to remove the toothpick from his mouth, roll it between his fingers, and replace it on the other side, gnashing his teeth together in a brutal smile. Daredevil hops down from his perch and strides forward, head lowered. Frank mutters how the hell he even knows where he's going, staring at the gravel under their feet like that. He could run straight into a bullet, considering the look on the shooter's face.

"This isn't about fun," the Devil answers, his suit casting a dark shadow across his revealed skin as he speaks carefully, slowly, lips parting to speak the words with a hiss of air that tells Frank all the legends are true- the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is terrifying. That is, to a lesser man. Frank Castle doesn't do 'terrified,' or at least would never admit such to himself, though he recognizes what scares other people.

Daredevil is one of those things.

"Of course it is," Bullseye laughs, "Isn't everything? Oh, Daredevil. I can imagine it now- the way, when you hit them, those criminals you fight each and every night, your heart, your pulse, it blasts- thunder. So loud, you can hardly hear yourself breathe, yes? Its like you're in a cave. You're so excited, hitting them. Adrenaline, epinephrine, hormones flooding your system... Its amazing, truly, the feeling doing what we do gives us."

"You're no vigilante," the only non-killer on the roof answers, beating Frank to the punch.

"Certainly not," Bullseye shrugs, smiling, "I'm a mercenary. A hitman. A gun for hire! We've met before, you know. I was there the night Ranskahov and you fought. The night that the detectives were shot at? I left my card. What, did no one find it? Pity. They probably left that one out of my file. Amateurs, I tell you- SHIELD, mostly, but the lot of them, too."

"SHIELD is dead," Daredevil bypasses, "I'm taking you in."

"No one takes me," Bullseye snorts, "Especially not men with such poor aim as you two poor saps."

"Poor aim?" the vigilante snorts, and Frank resigns himself to listening, despite wanting to speak, because Daredevil clearly has a lot to say tonight, "I doubt you'll feel the same soon."

"Oh, trust me, I've seen your bouncing trick," the shooter drawls, "But its boring. Trivial. A circus frill. The real work is what I do."

"Do enlighten me," Daredevil chuckles darkly.

"I will," Bullseye agrees, and then, calmly, takes out the toothpick from his mouth, examines it, and throws it.

Daredevil flinches as the tiny wooden spear embeds as deep into his suit as any bullet had before- and Frank's seen enough. He yanks his rifle up and fires, but Bullseye ducks, the lead flying over his head as he reveals his own handgun, a heavy revolver.

Frank rolls to the side, coughing on the dust the shooter kicks up in his face, but his recovery is fast, and he fires again, feeling a heavy shot whiz by his head. However, the downfall to a revolver? It takes time to get another round.

Time Frank gladly uses to shoot the revolver out of Bullseye's hands.

"You're good," Bullseye agrees, "No one's dodged a hit from me or taken my gun away in a long time- maybe ever, on the second count."

"You're also insane," Daredevil notes in a harsh sigh, "Both of you. Punisher- stay. I'm not through with you."

The Devil lunges at the shooter, but Bullseye dodges backwards and deflects his kick with his arm- they meet each other blow for blow, almost a blur in front of Frank, but he can see their fight, their finesse- its amazing, really. He's seen nothing like it since his most classified missions during his time in the service, before Maria, before everything. 

He is good- but he's not carrying the proper weapons for this. A low grade street submachine gun retrofitted into a cheap assault rifle and a pair of souped up pistols with the knife at his belt, small but easily carried, will not do the trick here.

The Punisher knows when to admit he needs to change his tactic- and so he defies the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and gets up, making his swift exit and slamming the door behind him.

~

Matt knows the Punisher leaves, but his priority is different, now- the huge round from that rifle tore through a local detective, a good cop, and the Devil wants his answers from someone who kills innocents, apparently, instead of just the criminals the other does. He makes an executive decision and stays to face this 'Bullseye' character.

"You know," Bullseye says, "You and the Punisher aren't so different."

"This isn't a conversation," Matt grunts, throwing a fist and deflecting a kick, trying to turn it into a yank off of feet, but ending it at the same stance, facing each other from an exact foot away.

"Everything's a conversation," Bullseye disagrees, "Even me, talking to the air, talking to my weapon, talking to my target. We're all talking. Its just a matter of who gets the last word- and I always get the last word." 

Matt senses a smile, a shift in the air and the humidity, the scent minutely shifting, and then something heavy shears past him as he tries to sidestep it, but the wind is knocked from him and he falls over.

"You're lucky," Bullseye muses, "I don't have a contract, and I don't hate you. You also don't bore me. Otherwise, I'd kill you. As it is, you're interesting, Daredevil. Stick around, you might like what you learn if you take a peek."

Then, he's gone, leaping into the night.

Great, Matt thinks, and tries to sit up.

Not great. 

Time to call Foggy.

~

Frank finds out when he gets home what happened- he sits down after he strips his gear off and throws it in the crawlspace he dug in secret after Maria and the kids, and gets on the laptop and looks up the news. 

Its on there.

Bullseye hit a cop- a good one, that, despite his inhibitions against the Punisher's work, did good work himself, and Frank admired. That was a mistake, on the mercenary's part. Frank hates it when good people die, and now, in even the slightest amount, this is personal. 

Once it gets personal for Frank Castle?

Its over for anyone who steps into his path.

He's going to punish Bullseye, and no one- not Daredevil, not the police, not SHIELD, not even God himself- is going to tell Frank Castle otherwise.

Tonight- he begins.

In the search bar, Frank types in, 'Bullseye,' and starts reading.

"Bullseye is wanted for thirty seven counts of..."

~

"...seventeen counts of assault with intent, sixty three counts of illegal possession of weapons, and five counts of assault," Foggy finishes reading aloud to Matt.

"Apparently without intend, but only apparently," his best friend adds, "Matt, this sounds like a really bad guy. Are you sure you shouldn't let- you know- take care of this?"

"Who, Foggy? Who's 'you know?'" Matt snorts.

"You know," Foggy repeats.

"The Avengers? SHIELD? SHIELD's gone, Foggy. And the Avengers don't care about some guy walking around with a bullseye on his forehead calling himself Bullseye shooting people for money, not until he does something to warrant their attention. Until Bullseye kills a big name, the big names? They don't care."

"Hawkeye helps Hell's Kitchen sometimes," Foggy reasons, "We could- politely take it to him, horns and all?"

"No," Matt says, leaving no room for argument, "This is something I have to take care of, Foggy. Its a loose end, now, from the Fisk case. Or at least Bullseye claims it is. That's my- my area of expertise. Let me do my job."

"Okay, Matt," Foggy sighs, leaning back, "But don't expect me not to say I told you so when this all starts screwing us sideways seven ways to Hell."

"We'll see, Foggy," Matt murmurs, lips parting to release a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, "We'll see."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((A/N: See what I mean? Hope this is a good update!! Thanks for reading!))


End file.
